


Getting Hitched

by squilf



Series: Eames from Marketing [2]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe - British, Alternate Universe - Office, Domestic Fluff, F/M, Family Angst, Family Feels, Fluff, Homophobia, London, M/M, Masturbation, Same-Sex Marriage, Stag Nights & Bachelor Parties, Wedding Planning
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-01
Updated: 2019-05-01
Packaged: 2020-02-10 22:14:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18669409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/squilf/pseuds/squilf
Summary: Eames from Marketing and Arthur from Finance just got engaged. What could possibly go wrong?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was originally part of _Under the Weather_ , which I posted on [LiveJournal](https://squilf.livejournal.com/10524.html) and [FanFiction.net](https://www.fanfiction.net/s/7982164/1/Under-The-Weather) back in 2013. I always felt that the first 8 chapters of _Under the Weather_ were the ‘original’ fic, and the extra chapters were more of a ‘postscript’, so I’ve turned it into a two-fic series for AO3.
> 
> I ended up taking a break from fandom so I never got around to finishing this fic – but that might change...

“What do you mean, ‘no’?”

“I mean _no_ , Eames.”

“But I thought you – we – _what_?”

Arthur tries to disentangle himself from the bedsheets but Eames drags him back down, snaking an arm round his waist.

“ _Eames_ ,” Arthur whines, “No.”

“But we have _all day_ just to ourselves,” says Eames, running a hand down Arthur’s arm, “So I thought…”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

Arthur looks up at Eames, dishevelled and confused and holding him tightly, and sighs heavily.

“It’s not that I don’t want to, Eames. Because I do.”

“I wasn’t really getting that impression.”

“Let me give you that impression,” says Arthur, and pulls him down into a kiss, warm and wet and open-mouthed, his hand at the back of Eames’ neck, moaning quietly as Eames pushes him down into the mattress, tongue thick and heavy in Arthur’s mouth.

Arthur pushes him away gently.

“Now do you believe I want you?”

Eames shrugs.

“I’m coming round to the idea.”

Arthur rolls his eyes, lets Eames kiss him again, his hand sneaking down to Arthur’s crotch.

“Okay, _now_ I’m starting to think you want me,” Eames says, his fingers rubbing against the obvious hardness there.

“Stop touching my cock, Eames.”

Eames does as he’s told, sighing heavily, as if it pains him.

“ _Why_?” he whines.

“I _can’t_ right now. Don’t look at me like that, Eames, it’s not _that_ awful.”

Eames gives him a look that says _yes it bloody well is_.

“I love you,” says Arthur, “But I’m just really busy right now. The merger with Fischer’s just come through –”

“Don’t tell me this is that posh git’s fault.”

“– _And_ I’ve got a wedding to organise.”

“Oh, so it’s my fault too?”

“ _Eames_. I’m going to be busy. Like, _really_ busy.”

“I’m still not quite seeing why this means we can’t have sex.”

“Because you want to, and I want to, but I know if I fall into bed with you, I’ll never get out. Once I’ve said yes, I won’t be able to say no. That’ll be it. Whenever, wherever, I’ll be yours.”

Eames grins.

“This sounds like a good situation.”

“It will be,” says Arthur, cupping Eames’ face in his hands, “It will be so good, Eames, I promise you. But I’ve got a lot to do right now. You understand, don’t you? Okay?”

“Okay.”

Eames nods, idly runs a finger along Arthur’s jawline.

“You’ve got lots to do today. But – tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow? Eames, I’m going to need longer than that.”

“How long? This weekend? Fuck, this whole week?”

“I meant until after the wedding.”

Eames blinks.

“What.”

“I’m serious.”

“You don’t mean that. _Please_ say you don’t mean that. Oh God, you do mean that.”

“I do. Most of the merger work will be over by then, and obviously I’ll be done with the wedding planning. We can go on honeymoon, and…”

Eames makes a noise somewhere between crying and groaning, and buries his face in Arthur’s chest.

“ _Darling_. I’ve waited _so long_ to have you.”

“Then you can wait a little longer.”

“But I _need_ you.”

“You have me.”

“I need you _sexually_.”

“Well,” says Arthur, running his fingers through Eames’ hair, “I said a similar thing to you the other night, and you turned me down. So, you did kind of bring this upon yourself.”

Eames is practically _sobbing_.

“I hate me.”

“Don’t do that, love. Not even _I_ hate you, and, let’s face it, you have been a bit of a prick to me.”

Arthur kisses him, but Eames doesn’t kiss him back. He just lets Arthur kiss him for a bit, then rolls off him, curling up on his side, his back to Arthur. Arthur sighs and spoons up behind him, kissing the back of his neck.

“Don’t sulk.”

“I’m not. I’m just going back to sleep.”

“I’ll get you up in a bit,” says Arthur, kissing him on the cheek before going to have a shower.

(While he’s in the shower, Eames looks down at his hand and says, “Looks like it’s just you and me, buddy.”)

 

* * *

 

Of course, Eames doesn’t simply _accept_ Arthur’s decision not to sleep with him. Throughout the weekend, he makes various attempts to get him into bed. They all fail. (Of course.)

“Do not think,” Eames says on Sunday morning, “I’m above tying you to the bed. Because I’m not.”

“Do that and I will _cut_ you.”

Eames softens and smiles, kisses Arthur gently on the lips.

“What was that for?” asks Arthur.

“I forgot how adorable you are when you’re angry.”

Arthur frowns.

“ _Awh_ , darling,” Eames croons, enveloping him in a bonecrushing hug, “We’re getting _married_.”

“Yes, and you could help it happen by letting me out of bed so I can apply for a licence,” says Arthur, trying to get out from under Eames.

“You’re no fun,” says Eames, sighing as Arthur wriggles out of bed.

“Oh, your life is so hard.”

“So’s my dick, but I don’t see you helping out with either of those things.”

Arthur just shrugs and heads to the bathroom.

“They’re not unconnected!” Eames shouts after him.

“Oh, just shut up and wank.”

“Oh, I will! _Loudly_!”

Stacy is _thrilled_ to hear the news. It isn’t entirely apparent at first, because when they tell her, she starts crying and hugging her son. After a few minutes she explains she’s crying with happiness, then starts crying all over again, this time hugging Arthur. Arthur really had no idea that his getting married would be so emotional for other people. At least Stacy agrees to do the cake.

 

* * *

 

Everyone is giving them _looks_ when they come into work on Monday. _I-know-you’ve-spent-the-whole-weekend-shagging-each-other-senseless-you-dirty-little-bastards_ kind of looks. Each look kills a tiny part of Eames. At least Arthur holds his hand, even pulls him in by his tie to kiss him goodbye when he drops Arthur off at his office.

“Is this you making it up to me?” Eames asks.

“No, this is me being in love with you. Get used to it, asshole.”

That, at least, makes Eames smile. The minute he’s gone, Ari and Yusuf’s heads pop up from under Arthur’s desk.

“ _Jesus_ , you two!” Arthur yells, nearly spilling his coffee everywhere, “How long have you _been_ there?”

“ _So_ , how was it?” asks Ari, giggling.

“You _have_ to tell us,” says Yusuf, “It’s our _right_ as your wingmen.”

Arthur all but ignores them, busying himself with his computer.

“Tell you what?” he asks disinterestedly.

“ _How it went_ with you and Eames, of course,” says Ari.

“You know how it went. We got engaged. You were there.”

“Don’t be so _obtuse_ ,” Yusuf sighs.

“Maybe your questions need a little more _specificity_.”

“Okay then,” Ari says loudly, “Tell us all about the rampant sex you and Eames had this weekend.”

When Arthur looks up from his computer, the rest of his office is crowded round his desk, looking at him expectantly.

“We didn’t,” he says.

“What?” says Ari.

“Have rampant sex this weekend.”

Yusuf raises an eyebrow.

“You mean you had _exceptionally_ rampant sex this weekend?”

“No, I mean we didn’t have sex at all.”

A collective gasp issues from the crowd of office workers. Somewhere, someone drops something. It sounds expensive. Then there’s a deadly silence.

“Arthur, my sweetheart,” says Ari, “I think I speak for us all when I say _what_ the bloody motherfucking _hell_?!”

“I just told Eames that, seeing as we’re going to be very busy, what with the merger and the wedding, it’d be easier if we, you know, held off until we’re married.”

Silence again. Everyone stares at Arthur.

“Okay,” says Yusuf, “Now taking bets for how long they’ll hold out before the cleaners find Arthur bent over his desk and screaming like a whore after work one evening!”

Arthur facepalms.

 

* * *

 

Eames is surprised (but _very_ pleased) when Arthur sneaks into his office half an hour after they part ways that morning, drags him out into the corridor, pushes him against the wall and kisses him, hard.

“Jesus, _Arthur_ ,” Eames breathes, pulling him closer.

“This is me making it up to you for letting slip that we’re not having sex until our wedding night.”

“What? Well, you’ll need to do more than _that_ to make it up to me,” says Eames, and lets Arthur maul his mouth.

They’re on the tube home when Arthur sees a familiar old lady.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hello, dear. Is this your boyfriend?”

“Er, hi,” says Eames, waving awkwardly.

“This is Eames,” says Arthur, “Though it’s actually fiancé.”

“Yeah, we skipped the boyfriend part,” says Eames, “Jumped straight ahead to lifelong commitment.”

The old lady beams at them, and takes Arthur’s hand.

“I’m so glad it worked out for you, dear.”

“It’s Arthur,” says Arthur, “And you should come to the wedding.”

“Oh, I don’t want to be any trouble –”

“No, really,” says Eames, “You should come. Almost everyone else is.”

“Nightmare finding a venue big enough,” Arthur mutters.

“Really?” says the old lady, “I can come?”

“Of _course_ ,” says Arthur, “It’s thanks to you that we’re even having a wedding. It was what you said about you and your husband. Oh, he should come too!”

“He’s dead, dear. Has been these twenty years now.”

“Oh. I’m sorry. Do you… have a boyfriend?”

“A boyfriend? I’m a bit old for that, dear! No, no. I think that Ernie was the only one for me.”

“I know the feeling,” says Eames.

Arthur blushes.

 

* * *

 

That week is insanely busy. Arthur’s got hundreds of things to sort out and he doesn’t trust Eames to do any of them. The guest list racks up fast, and soon, Arthur’s nearly having a meltdown over where to _have_ the damn wedding, because he just can’t find a venue big enough.

“There’s just too many people!” Arthur cries, “We physically _can’t_ invite everyone! We’ve _got_ to make cutbacks. I mean, do we really need so many bridesmaids?”

“We don’t have _that_ many.”

“Eames. There are thirty-six.”

“That’s one for every department in the company. It’s only fair.”

“I thought there weren’t any women in Engineering?”

“There aren’t. Jeff’s being a bridesmaid all the same. Never would have guessed he was into crossdressing.”

“Well, he can’t do it.”

“Don’t crush the man’s dreams, Arthur!”

“We have too many bridesmaids! And how is not letting a middle-aged engineer crossdress on our wedding day _crushing his dreams_?!”

“It just _is_!”

Luckily for Jeff from Engineering (and Arthur’s blood pressure), Eames tells Saito about their venue problems, because he’d like Arthur to actually _survive_ until their wedding day, and at the moment it’s looking like he’s going to die of stress before then. Arthur nearly _faints_ with joy the next day when he gets a phone call from whoever it is in charge of Westminster Registry Office, and kisses Eames enthusiastically as a thank you. (It’s certainly an incentive for him to help out with the wedding.)

“26th January,” says Arthur, when he hangs up.

“Huh?”

Arthur practically skips over and sits on Eames’ lap.

“That’s the date for our wedding.”

“But that’s – that’s four months away! That’s _ages_!”

“It’s _not_! It’s actually a very tight schedule. You should be glad. I was originally thinking we should have a summer wedding.”

“Oh dear God, no. _No_.”

“See? January’s not that long to wait,” says Arthur, kissing him lightly.

Eames pulls him closer, kisses him more, bites his lower lip. Then the phone rings.

“That,” says Arthur, in between kisses, “Will be – the florists.”

Eames makes a disappointed noise as he dashes off to get the phone. He looks down at his cock, which is now straining through his trousers.

“Hang in there, little guy,” he says.

 

* * *

 

On top of everything else, Arthur’s got to organise moving out of his flat and into Eames’ house. Ari and Yusuf help out, although they completely disregard the labelling system on Arthur’s boxes and seem to spend most of their time hanging around eating biscuits.

“I may be moving in,” says Arthur, looking at the awful wallpaper in the lounge, “But that’s under the condition that we redecorate the fuck out of this house.”

Eames groans.

“There’s too much work in my life.”

“There’s too much brown in your lounge.”

Arthur gives him a _life’s-a-bitch-and-you’re-my-bitch-oh-look-so-many-bitches-they-all-belong-to-me_ look. Eames sighs, hugging him from behind.

“That’ll be the next project,” says Arthur, “After the wedding.”

“Oh no. The next project after the wedding is the one where I work out just how many ways I can make you come.”

“That is a worthy project,” says Arthur, nodding sagely.

“ _Guys_!” Ari yells, gesturing at them with a chocolate bourbon, “We are still _here_ , you know!”

 

* * *

 

Despite how busy they are, Arthur keeps his promise to Cobb that he’ll babysit the kids on Friday night. Eames is jealous that Arthur’s taking time out from wedding planning for Cobb but not for him, but Arthur points out that babysitting and sex are two _very_ different things. They go round early and Arthur tells Cobb he can’t go out wearing _that_ if he wants to have sex this century and roots through his wardrobe to find something better, while Eames does something with the kids which involves all three of them getting covered in mud in the space of ten minutes.

“You are _not_ kissing daddy goodbye when you’re all covered in dirt,” says Arthur.

“ _Oh-hh_ ,” say Philippa and James. (And Eames.)

“Eames, you’re the babysitter, not the child,” says Arthur, attacking the muddy children with a wet flannel.

“Yes, daddy,” says Eames.

Arthur throws the flannel in his face.

“Not a kink you have,” Eames says from under the flannel, “Gotcha.”

Arthur takes the flannel and starts cleaning Eames’ face with it.

“I wouldn’t say _that_ ,” he says quietly.

Eames frowns, then grins.

“ _Oh_ , I get it. Other way roun–”

Arthur stuffs the flannel in his mouth.

“I think you’ve traumatised Dom enough,” he says.

Cobb nods, in a _yes-you-really-bloody-have-oh-God-I’m-going-to-think-about-that-when-I’m-trying-to-get-off-with-Ari-now-you-kinky-homosexual-bastards_ kind of a way.

“ _Anyway_ ,” he says, “I’ve got to go now.”

The children run to him and he kisses them goodbye.

“Now, be good for uncle Arthur and uncle Eames. Do what your uncle Arthur tells you. Don’t listen to your uncle Eames. Okay, bye now!”

“Bye, daddy!” say the children.

“Yeah, bye!” says Eames, “I hope you score!”

Arthur stuffs the flannel back in his mouth.

In the end, they have a fairly quiet evening. Arthur does some colouring with Philippa while Eames carries James around on his back, pretending to be a dinosaur. They manage to pack the kids off to bed by eight, then come downstairs and collapse on the sofa.

“Dom’s children are _exhausting_ ,” says Arthur, practically falling on top of Eames.

“ _You_ weren’t the one being Tyrannosaurus Eames for the last two hours. Ah, they’re kind of awesome, though.”

Arthur gives him a look.

“You’re not getting broody, are you?”

Eames shrugs, picking at the hem of Arthur’s shirt.

“Would that – be a bad thing?”

“Oh, _no_. No, of course not.”

“I mean, it’s a way off yet, it’s just something, you know, to think about, seeing as we’re, you know, long term, I mean, well, you know how I feel.”

Arthur smiles.

“Is that how you see us? Five, ten years down the line, you and me and someone else?”

“I’m suggesting we have a family, Arthur, not a ménage a trois.”

Arthur laughs and hits him.

“Why does your mind always go to sex?”

“Can you really blame me when my rather gorgeous intended is on top of me?”

Arthur drops a kiss on his forehead.

“Darling…” says Eames, “The kids have gone to bed, don’t you think we could…”

“You’re right.”

Arthur sits up.

“Can’t waste any time. I’ve got to phone Angela about the flowers.”

He springs off the sofa and starts rummaging through his bag for his phone.

“Oh,” Eames says sadly, “Yes, we could. Do that. Right. Yep. I’ll just. Be here. If you want me. You know. Ever.”

His cock twitches limply in his trousers.

“I feel you, bro,” Eames says sadly, “I feel you.”


	2. Chapter 2

Life goes on. Arthur’s buried under a mountain of work for the new merger, which is getting him a Christmas bonus (and probably a heart condition), and Eames is put into the ‘worried wife’ role, which mostly involves trying to make sure his fiancé makes it to their wedding day alive. He makes soups and cakes, he helps organise the few things Arthur trusts him not to mess up (namely ordering the napkins and chair covers), he tries to get Arthur into bed at a sensible time. He prays, very earnestly, that this torment will all be over soon, and then it’ll just be him and Arthur in a hotel room and a substantial supply of lube.

 

* * *

 

Arthur nearly has a meltdown over the bridesmaids. Well, Arthur nearly has several meltdowns over the few months preceding the wedding. (This is Near-Meltdown #7) The problem with the bridesmaids is that there are thirty-six of them, and it’s not exactly easy to find a dress that will suit everyone. Sue from Logistics is six months pregnant, Pam from Catering is seventy, and Jeff from Engineering is a man.

“Why don’t you just have them all in different dresses?” Eames suggests, tiredly leaning against the doorframe and eating a yoghurt while Arthur freaks out about it at his desk at a few minutes past two in the morning, “You know, different kinds and colours.”

“Because it’s not the done thing!” Arthur cries.

Eames shrugs and spoons more yoghurt into his mouth, because there are seriously not enough dairy products in their fridge to get him through this shit.

“Marrying someone you’ve never slept with isn’t the done thing, but we’re doing that.”

“Rainbow bridesmaids,” Arthur says darkly, “Has it come to this?  _Rainbow_  bridesmaids?”

“Well, it is a gay wedding.”

Arthur groans.

 

* * *

 

“Darling,” says Eames, coming over to put a hand on Arthur’s shoulder, “Won’t you come back to bed now?”

“How can I  _sleep_  when the colour scheme of our wedding has been  _destroyed_?! You don’t  _understand_  how –”

Eames pushes a spoonful of yoghurt into Arthur’s mouth, which has the desired effect of shutting him up. Eames is definitely not turned on by the curve of Arthur’s lips around the spoon, or the way he swallows thickly, or the flash of his tongue, quickly licking away the yoghurt at the corner of his mouth. No. That is not erotic  _in any way_. Arthur whines for more, and Eames feeds it to him, slowly, until it’s all gone, and Arthur’s licking the spoon clean. Eames makes an inadvertent choking noise in his throat, because  _Jesus Christ_  he wishes Arthur was licking something  _other_  than that spoon, and Arthur looks up at him.

“Did I just give you a hard-on by eating yoghurt?”

“Maybe you should check.”

Arthur places his hand on Eames’ crotch, and yeah, he  _does_  have a hard-on. A very big, hard, hard-on. Woah. Did he mention big?

“Don’t you have  _any_  self-control?” asks Arthur, but he’s not taking his hand away.

“Don’t  _you_?” says Eames, nodding at Arthur’s hand, “I mean, honestly, Arthur. You can’t just  _manhandle_  me like that. I’m not a piece of meat.”

Arthur smiles, pushes his hand harder into Eames, his fingers squeezing a little.

“You’d  _love_  to be manhandled.”

Eames shrugs.

“There’s a lot of man to handle.”

Arthur blushes, because he can’t really deny that that’s true.

“Oh, darling,” says Eames, “You don’t need to be shy. I promise to be gentle with you.”

Arthur rolls his eyes.

“I’m a big boy, Eames. I think I can take it.”

Eames leans in.

“I’d like to see you take it.”

He takes Arthur’s hand, pulls him up out of his chair.

“Now,” he says, “Won’t you come back to bed now?”

“To  _sleep_.”

“Do you know,” says Eames, leading Arthur by the hand back to their bedroom, “If you look up  _massive fucking cocktease_  in the dictionary, there’s a picture of you?”

“Do you know,” says Arthur, crawling back into bed, “If you listen very carefully, you can hear the sound of me not giving a fuck?”

“And if  _you_  listen very carefully, you can hear the sound of me jerking off anyway.”

Arthur smiles, presses himself up against Eames’ back, kisses his neck, puts his hand on Eames’ arm, feels it move up and down, hears Eames say, “Fuck, Arthur,  _Arthur_.”

“Ssh,” Arthur breathes, and pushes his fingers into Eames’ mouth, feels him suck them, feels Eames tip over the edge and shudder and come, his breathing heavy.

“Didn’t that break your rule about not having sex before the wedding?” Eames asks.

“No,” says Arthur, as he takes Eames’ fingers into his mouth and licks them clean, “I figure this doesn’t count.”

It’s not exactly what Eames wants, but it is an improvement.

 

* * *

 

The next day isn’t so good. Because the next day, Actual Meltdown #1 happens. Arthur comes home late from work, runs into the kitchen where Eames is cooking dinner because he’s basically Arthur’s neglected housewife by this point, sobs, “I’m sorry, Eames! I love you but I can’t marry you! Oh God!”, and runs back out of the front door. Eames stares, then runs after him, even though he’s wearing an apron and boxer shorts and little else. (Hey, a man’s allowed to wear what he wants in his own house, and he  _knows_  Arthur just loves it.)

“Don’t come after me, Eames! There’s nothing you can do!”

“ _Arthur_ ,” cries Eames, catching Arthur’s arm and turning him round to face him, “Darling, what is it?”

“Don’t make this any more difficult than it already is!” Arthur shouts, and he’s full-on weeping now, his face streaked with tears.

“Just – just come inside and we’ll talk about it, yeah?” Eames says soothingly, holding Arthur by his shoulders.

“There’s nothing more to be said!”

Eames sees a few curtains twitching. Their neighbours are no doubt wondering what the hell is going on. Eames knows the feeling.

“Come on, darling,” he says gently, “There’s nothing in this world that’s so terrible that means we can’t be together, is there?”

“There is! Oh, Eames, there is.”

“Arthur Levine, I  _love_  you. I love you, and you love me, and we are going to get married. Whatever it is that’s upsetting you,  _whatever_  it is that comes between us, we can work it out.”

“It’s the caterers!” Arthur yells, falling forwards and sobbing into Eames’ chest.

Eames blinks.

“The caterers.”

“They say – they say they can’t do it and – and the wedding’s practically  _weeks_  away now and – God – Eames – we can’t get married, we can’t – oh,  _Eames_ …”

“Oh, darling,” says Eames, hugging Arthur close, “Don’t cry. It’s alright.”

“It’s  _not_  alright!”

“Will you come inside, darling? The macaroni cheese is going to burn.”

Arthur only cries louder.

“I always loved your macaroni cheese. I’ll miss you.”

Eames presses a kiss to the side of Arthur’s head.

“I’m not going anywhere, darling. And neither are you. This is your home. Here, with me. Come back inside.”

Arthur nods numbly, letting Eames pull him back into the house. Mercifully, the macaroni cheese isn’t burnt. They sit on the sofa and eat it – or rather, Eames eats it, and Arthur stares blankly in front of him.

“Open up,” says Eames, dangling a forkful of pasta in front of Arthur’s mouth.

Arthur does as he’s told, eating the food unblinkingly.

“This wedding really can’t come soon enough,” says Eames, because they’ve reached the point when Arthur’s become emotionally volatile as a result of caterers and can therefore no longer feed himself.

He puts an arm round Arthur, says, “I’m going to love you always.  _Always_. Now eat your macaroni.”

 

* * *

 

Anyway, Eames sorts out the catering fiasco – which basically involves asking Saito to deal with it. When it all works itself out, Arthur hugs Eames tightly and says, “You know what, Mr Eames? You’re not so bad.”

“You’re rather wonderful yourself.”

“Come here,” says Arthur, and kisses him soundly, before dashing off to harass the florists again.

Eames groans and leans against the wall, because he’s hard from kissing Arthur for eight seconds and his life really isn’t fair.

 

* * *

 

The wedding’s in just a month now, which Arthur thinks is a tight deadline, and Eames thinks is a bloody  _lifetime_  away. Arthur’s been working nonstop, but Eames at least gets him to have a rest over Christmas. At first Arthur complains that he’s from a Jewish family and he doesn’t believe in Christmas, but Eames reminds him that he stopped practising Judaism as soon as he left home, and that is a bacon sandwich in your hand right now. So Arthur gives in. They have Christmas with Dom and the kids and Ari, who are already a perfectly adorable, dysfunctional family unit. They have dinner and exchange presents and Dom and Ari bicker over whose turn it is to put the kids to bed and it’s actually pretty perfect.

“Have you told your parents yet?” Arthur asks Ari when they’re doing the washing-up.

“Well, not exactly. I mean, I’ve told them I’m spending Christmas with my boyfriend, but, er…”

“Have failed to mention he’s a widower with children.”

“Something like that.”

Arthur laughs.

“Have you been getting on okay?”

Ari grins.

“Yeah. It’s just… I don’t know, really nice.”

“Hmm,  _nice_. That most promising of adjectives.”

Ari hits him with the tea towel.

“It’s a lot more promising than  _‘Oh, Ari, I don’t like Eames, and I never will’_. Now shut up, or I’ll give you explicit details about our sex life.”

“Oh  _God_ , I don’t need to know. Dom’s like a  _brother_ , and you’re like a sister.”

Ari raises an eyebrow.

“Alright then, I won’t tell you about our kinky incestuous sex. So, uh, you and Eames haven’t, you know?”

“No.”

“How’s he coping?”

Arthur sucks in his breath.

“They say it’s only a matter of days now before his cock drops off from masturbating too much. The doctors don’t think he’ll make it.”

“I  _can_  hear you!” Eames calls from the next room.

“So can I! Please stop saying my name when you come, I always think you’re calling me because you want something.”

“I  _do_  want something.”

“Awh, he says your name when he comes. That’s kind of – romantic?” says Ari.

Arthur gives her a look.

“Don’t encourage him.”

 

* * *

 

They all crash out in the lounge with a few glasses of wine and before long, Dom and Ari have fallen asleep on the sofa, curled up with each other.

“C’mere,” says Eames, pulling Arthur closer, “You know, next Christmas is going to be very different.”

“Yeah. I won’t be stressed about seating arrangements, for one.”

“I mean, we’ll be married. And it’ll just be me and you… And we can just hang out and have dinner and  _lots_  of sex.”

Arthur chuckles.

“Thinking about the things you’re going to do to me is the only thing keeping you going right now, isn’t it?”

“Kind of, yeah.”

Arthur leans closer.

“I’ll tell you a secret. It’s the only thing keeping me going, too.”

“Really?”

“ _Yes_ , Eames. I think about you  _all the time_. I  _want_  you. I’ve wanted you so long now. I want you to take me upstairs on our wedding night and fuck me into the next day. Fuck, Eames, I want that. I  _need_  it.”

“You’ll get it, darling. You’ll get everything you want. I’m going to fuck you into mattress, until all you can do is scream like a fucking whore, and I’ll come inside you and I’ll lick you clean, and I’ll –”

“ _Jesus_ ,” says Dom, because he and Ari  _would_  pick that moment to wake up, “I’ll just put that in a box labelled ‘things I need to forget’.”

“I’m quite happy to remember it,” says Ari, shrugging.

Arthur tries to wriggle off the sofa, but Eames pulls him back. It’s only when he feels something press against his thigh that he realises why.

“ _Really_ , Eames.”

“This is what you do to me.”

“Okay, I’m also going to put the fact that Eames blatantly has a boner in that box,” says Dom.

“Wow,” says Ari, “That box sounds like a lot of fun.”


	3. Chapter 3

“I think they’re good together, Dom and Ari,” Eames says that night, when he and Arthur are curled up in Dom’s guest room on the lumpy spare bed, “Don’t you think?”

“Yeah,” says Arthur, shuffling about in the bed, trying to get comfortable.

“This better?” says Eames, hauling Arthur up on top of him.

“ _Mmf_ ,” mumbles Arthur, nuzzling Eames’ neck.

Eames waits a few moments before he asks, “What happened? With his wife?”

Arthur freezes.

“Mal died. Three years ago,” he says, his voice distant, like a tape recording.

“How did it happen?” Eames asks gently, stroking Arthur’s arm with his thumb absentmindly.

Arthur takes a breath, says, very slowly, “She jumped out of a hotel window.”

“I’m sorry. Did you know her well?”

“I knew her first. I loved her most.”

“Were you…?”

“We met at college. We were inseparable. I thought she was my soulmate, if they exist. She was – like one half of me. Like a twin. I only loved Dom for her sake. It was only after that I – well, he’s family. After Mal… I hated her at first. For doing that to her family. To us. I didn’t think I’d trust anyone again.”

He gives Eames a sidelong glance.

“I guess I couldn’t keep that up.”

“Is that why you hated me coming onto you so much at first?”

“Yes. Well, that and you were being an obnoxious douche.”

Eames chuckles, wrapping his arms around him tightly.

“I’m sorry about Mal. I wouldn’t have asked if I’d known.”

“It’s fine. It’s not like I can keep any secrets from you anymore anyway.”

Eames kisses him on the forehead.

“Oh, I don’t know. There’s still a lot I want to find out about you.”

“You’ve got a lot of time to find it out. You’ll get bored in the end.”

“Never! Never, never, _never_ ,” says Eames, kissing him in between each word.

Arthur laughs, batting him away.

“Stupid man,” he says.

“I am _wounded_. I declare that I shall love you always and you say I’m stupid?”

Arthur shrugs.

“Always is a long time.”

“It won’t be long enough for me.”

Arthur groans.

“Stop it.”

“What?”

“Sometimes you say things that are so romantic and sincere I just want to screw you.”

“Sometimes I just want to screw you.”

Arthur gives him a _you’re-a-sex-addict-and-I-kind-of-like-it-but-don’t-tell-anyone-it-ruins-my-image_ look.

“Only _sometimes_?”

 

* * *

 

The wedding’s steadily getting closer. It’s only a fortnight away now. Arthur’s getting even more stressed, and Eames is getting even more impatient. (He’s waiting for this wedding with the desperation of a man who hasn’t felt anyone but himself touch his genitals for nine months, of course he’s getting impatient.) It’s Sunday morning, and Arthur is still in bed, too exhausted to move. Eames likes seeing him like that, sleepy and sweet, even if he is grouchy.

“Arthur?” Eames says around his toothbrush.

“Eames,” says Arthur groggily, swamped in the duvet, without opening his eyes.

“I was just thinking –”

“That’s never a good idea.”

“What about your family?”

“What about them?”

“They’re not on the guest list.”

“Goodness, Eames, your powers of observation have no limits, do they?”

“They’re not coming?”

“Hmm, I don’t know,” says Arthur, his voice radiating sarcasm, “Are they on the guest list? Oh wait, no.”

“Why not?”

“Because I didn’t invite them.”

Eames frowns.

“Why not?”

“Because they wouldn’t have come if I had.”

“Why not?”

“Is that all you can say? They just wouldn’t, okay? The States are kind of a long way away.”

“Surely not if their son is getting married.”

“Well they don’t know that, do they, so I can’t imagine they exactly care much.”

“You haven’t told them?”

“I haven’t spoken to them in the last three years, I don’t see any reason why I should.”

Eames freezes.

“Arthur… Are you ashamed of me?”

Arthur rolls over.

“ _What_?”

“Is it because I’m a man?”

“Eames, do you want me to punch you? I don’t give a shit about what my family thinks. About you, about anything. I’m going to stay in Britain and I’m going to marry you and I’m going to be fucking happy, and I don’t need them to tell me everything I’m doing wrong, because this is what _I want_.”

Eames softens, sits on the bed, kisses Arthur. Arthur wrinkles his nose.

“You taste like toothpaste.”

“Don’t you think you should at least tell them?”

Arthur rolls his eyes.

“Listen,” says Eames, “I know they want you to be a career bitch, but they must want you to be happy too, more than anything else. It’s not like you’re going to be a househusband. You couldn’t be. You can’t cook, for one.”

“I can!”

“Toast doesn’t count. Burnt toast certainly doesn’t. Honestly, how did you ever survive without me?”

“Much more quietly.”

“Oh, you are a grumpy darling this morning,” says Eames, kissing his nose.

“And you are a douche this morning,” Arthur grumbles.

Eames kisses him again, partly to shut him up, and partly because he finds a disgruntled Arthur especially adorable.

“Will you tell them?” he asks, “Please?”

“I’ll think about it.”

Eames grins.

“Now stop smirking and get in the kitchen, bitch,” says Arthur, pushing him away.

 

* * *

  
  
Stacy drops a bombshell that week. Metaphorically. Eames drops a teapot. Literally. She invites them round for dinner after work and when Eames is making the tea she says, “I’m thinking about retiring.”

“But you can’t retire!” Eames says later, when his tea-soaked trousers are drying on the radiator (at her son’s lack of clothes, Stacy had just shrugged and said, “I don’t have anything for you to wear, but it doesn’t matter. Nothing Arthur and I haven’t seen before,” which made Arthur turn a wonderful shade of pink), “You’re too young!”

“I’m afraid I’m quite old enough now, darling,” Stacy says calmly, “And I’ve saved up enough money to retire. I want to go travelling. Italy, maybe. And France.”

“That sounds lovely,” says Arthur.

Eames shoots him a _don’t-encourage-her-she’s-a-crazy-old-woman-who-spends-her-life-making-scones-she-can’t-be-trusted_ look.

“What about the teashop?” he cries.

“Well,” says Stacy, “That’s sort of what I wanted to talk to you about. It’s just, you’ve both done your bit to help me out there from time to time, and Taffy, you’re a marvellous cook, and Arthur, you’ve got a head for business, so I did wonder if…”

“If we would take it on?” says Arthur.

Eames looks like he could happily break every teapot in the country.

“ _What_?!”

“Now I know it’s a big ask –”

“Big? It’s fucking huge, mother! The size of the ask is astronomical! It could not fit within this galaxy! If you were to put this ask next to the _sun_ it would –”

“I just thought you should _consider_ it. I’d give it to you for free, I wouldn’t sell. All you’d have to do is take up the running of the place.”

“That’s a very kind offer,” says Arthur, because Eames looks like he’s about to go on that teapot-smashing rampage, “We’ll definitely think about it.”

 

* * *

  
  
“Do you really want to own a teashop?” Eames asks when they get home.

Arthur shrugs, starts making them some coffee.

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

“But what about your job?”

“My job’s not that important to me, Eames. At least, not anymore.”

Arthur looks over at Eames, still grumpy.

“Not now I’ve got you,” he adds, to try and placate him a little.

(In the future, he’ll placate him with sex, but right now, saying something soppy and romantic will just have to do.)

“We’ve got lots of time, love. It’s just something to think about.”

Eames nods, but doesn’t say anything. Arthur takes a sip of his coffee. Says, very casually, “Mind if I watch you jerk off later tonight?”

That seems to perk Eames up alright.

 

* * *

  
  
Somewhere between watching Eames touch himself while panting Arthur’s name and kissing him when he came, Arthur decides that yeah, he should tell his family about the ridiculous man he’s helplessly in love with. He takes it as a sign that he’s slowly becoming Eames’ bitch. Alarmingly, he doesn’t really much care at this turn of events. That in itself is probably a sign that he really needs to have sex with the man. Get the need to do things for him (and _to_ him) out of his system and go back to being the one in charge. Anyway, here he is, on the phone to his parents, sitting in the airing cupboard so Eames won’t know that he’s actually doing something he asked him to. He might be Eames’ bitch, but he’s not going to know about it.

“Hello?”

It’s his mum. Oh, he can just tell this is going to go horrifically wrong. Maybe he should hang up now.

“Hello?”

But then she’d call back. And then it’d be even more awkward.

“Hello?”

On the other hand, international calls are very expensive, especially on their tariff. He should really get Eames to switch to BT.

“Is anyone fucking there?!”

“Er, yeah, yeah, there is. Someone here, that is.”

“And just who is this _someone here_?”

“It’s Arthur.”

“ _Arthur_?!”

“Yeah, you know me, you gave birth to me a few years back.”

“If you’re in jail I’m not bailing you out, I’ve done that enough times with your brother. And I’m not paying your medical fees, you’re well enough to hold a phone.”

“Well, actually, they have a National Health Service in Britain, so you wouldn’t need to do that.”

“Goddamn socialists.”

“I’ve missed you too, mum.”

“You could have called once in a while!”

“So could you.”

“You didn’t give me your number! What was I supposed to do, contact you telepathically?”

“Using a phone book would have been sufficient.”

“What do you want? You must want _something_. You’ve been fine for five years without us.”

“Two. And I don’t want anything. I just wanted to tell you something.”

“That you’re gay?”

“What? No, no, not that.”

“Just a stab in the dark. Given that you did screw the boss’ son when you were on that internship.”

“How did you even know about that?”

“I don’t blame you, he was rather attractive.”

Arthur facepalms.

“So what did you want to tell me?”

“Erm, I – I asked someone to marry me.”

“Well, I’m guessing she said yes, otherwise we wouldn’t be having this conversation. She’s British, I suppose?”

“Yes.”

“Never did like the British. They speak English all wrong and they put _u_ ’s in their words. Can you really marry someone like that?”

“Well, despite those challenging circumstances, I think we’re going to give it a shot.”

“Hmm. Your lookout.”

“His name is Eames, by the way.”

“ _His_? Why do you say his?”

“Because it’s the correct pronoun to use when referring to a man?”

“You’re marrying a man? You can’t!”

“Actually, the UK approved civil partnerships in 2005, so, turns out I can.”

“I thought you said you weren’t gay?”

“Well actually I didn’t.”

“Well actually you did.”

“I could be bisexual!”

Mrs Levine sighs, a rush of static over the end of the phone.

“I suppose you want us to come to this civil partnership, then?”

“Not particularly, no. I wasn’t even going to tell you about it, until Eames said I ought to. I’m doing this for him, not you. So, there’s my moral obligation to you done. I’m ridiculously in love with Eames, he’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me, we’re getting married, my career is not as important as the man I love so I’m staying in Britain and I’m going to run a fucking teashop if I want, just thought I should give you an update.”

“Your father won’t be pleased.”

“My father’s not pleased about a lot of things, so I don’t really mind adding to them.”

“But what about your career?”

“My career can go fuck itself.”

“You’re really going to go through with this?”

“Of course. I’ve got the caterers booked.”

Mrs Levine is silent.

“Wow,” says Arthur, “Don’t overwhelm me with your congratulations.”

His mother says nothing.

“You know, I actually thought you might be happy for me. That there was something good in my life, even if you didn’t approve of it. I guess I was wrong.”

Arthur sighs.

“I’m _happy_ , mum. I’m really fucking happy. So just – try to be happy for me?”

Silence. Then, “You know we’ve only ever wanted what was best for you, Arthur.”

“I do. But maybe Eames _is_ what’s best for me. That’s what’s going to make me happy. Not a high-paying job somewhere far away from him. I want a life. A family, even. And I’m not going to run away from what I want because of something I’m _meant_ to want.”

He breathes in, then out. He doesn’t expect his mother of all people to understand. It’s not like she married for love.

“Well, I’d better go,” he says, “Lots to organise. I, um, well, goodbye.”

“We do love you, Arthur.”

“Yeah. You just have a weird way of showing it.”

“I hope everything is okay. And love to Dominick.”

“Okay. Bye,” Arthur says, and hangs up.

And if he spends eleven minutes of his life crying in an airing cupboard, well, no-one needs to know.

 

* * *

 

“I spoke to my mum,” Arthur says that night, clinging tighter to Eames than usual.

“Really? How was it?”

“Fucked up.”

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah. It’s just… what they want for me isn’t what I want for me. They want me to have a career, stay focused on work.”

“And what do you want?”

Arthur rolls his eyes.

“If you don’t fucking know that by now you’re more of an idiot that I previously thought.”

“Humour me.”

Arthur sighs heavily.

“Mr Eames, I want to marry you and live with you and be together always, because I’m actually a teenage girl. Happy now?”

“Very,” says Eames, and kisses him, “Are you?”

Arthur thinks about Eames, about the fact that in a week, they’ll be married, and that’s them, the start of a life with each other. He thinks about nagging Eames to do the DIY, about coming home to Eames’ cooking, about introducing people to his _husband_ , about maybe running a teashop. Because that’s what a relationship is. Living together and making compromises and sacrifices and falling in love. Not the sex, the other shit. (Although he is quite looking forward to being thoroughly fucked, not gonna lie.)

“Yeah,” says Arthur, “I’m happy.”


	4. Chapter 4

We will not speak of Eames’ stag do. Well, alright, we will, but Arthur won’t be happy about it. (After the event, he enforces silence; anyone who mentions it has to put a few quid into a jar marked ‘Arthur’s Therapy Fund’.) As best man, Cobb is meant to organise the stag do, but the kids come down with something and in between mopping up sick and trying to entertain a grumpy three-year-old, he doesn’t have the time. Eames is appalled; Arthur can just about live with it.

“But it’s my last night as a free man!” Eames cries over the phone, “You’ve got to do _something_ before the chains of matrimony are tied around me forever!”

“I _am_ in the room, Eames,” says Arthur, looking up from his cereal with an _if-you’re-not-careful-on-our-wedding-night-I-am-going-to-bring-you-to-the-brink-of-orgasm-and-then-leave-you-to-cook-bacon- and-I-won’t-even-give-you-any-that-is-how-cruel-I-am_ look. (He can convey a lot with just a look.)

“Eames,” Cobb sighs, “Do you know what it’s like being constantly screamed at?”

“What do you think living with Arthur is like?”

“You inflicted him upon yourself.”

“But the same cannot be said for your spawn. They can ruin your life, not mine.”

“When you and Arthur have kids, I will laugh. So. _Very_. Hard.”

“Well actually, we plan on using protection!” says Eames, and slams the phone down.

Arthur shovels a spoonful of Cheerios into Eames’ mouth.

“Well,” he says flatly, “That’s a shame.”

Eames would protest, but his mouth is full of Cheerios. (Arthur’s thought this through.)

 

* * *

 

He spends the rest of the day in quiet mourning for the night of drunkenness and debauchery that is sadly never to be. That is, until Ari steps into the fifth floor office, barely smiling, and says, “So what do you think? One stripper or two?”

“Oh God, you beautiful woman,” Eames cries, and tackle-hugs her to the floor.

Ari yelps in surprise, but soon dissolves into giggles.

“Get _all_ the strippers,” says Eames, and kisses her on the lips, “ _All_ of them.”

Arthur is going to kill him.

 

* * *

 

“Now remember,” Arthur says, “No strippers, no shots, and if you look a state in the wedding photos I can and will hold it against you for the rest of our married life.”

“Got it,” says Eames, shrugging on his jacket and grabbing his keys.

Arthur narrows his eyes.

“I mean it, Eames.” 

Eames puts his hands on Arthur’s shoulders.

“Trust me darling, it’ll be _fine_. We’re adults.”

Arthur looks outside, where Ari, Yusuf and various members of the office team are piled into the back of a pickup truck, dressed in onesies and dancing to Gangnam Style. He looks back to Eames.

“Really.”

Eames pulls him close and kisses him.

“You have a nice time with Dom, okay?”

“Oh yes, and his spawn. We’ll have a riot.”

"Alright, you grumpy sod,” Eames chuckles, taking Arthur’s face in his hands and kissing him hard.

The truckful of inebriated office workers cheers and catcalls.

“Yeah, alright, go have fun,” sighs Arthur, waving Eames away.

“I love you.” 

“Behave yourself.”

Eames grins and kisses him one last time, before running out to join his stag party.

“Is it legal to drive with that many people in the back?” Arthur calls after them, but they’re already halfway down the road.

He sighs, leaning against the doorway.

“I love you too,” he says.

 

* * *

 

Arthur’s hen night – which he insists is _not_ a hen night because he is not the bride, he’s the one who proposed, okay, but everyone else calls a hen night – consists of a few quiet drinks round Cobb’s. Well, that’s what it was meant to be. It ends up being more like a sad piss-up. The kids are better, which is just as well because Arthur doesn’t want them coughing all through his wedding service thank you very much, and he’s relieved enough about that to forgive Philippa from saying, “But we can’t see you, Uncle Arthur! Daddy says it’s bad luck to see the bride before the wedding!” (“Oh did he?” says Arthur, giving Cobb a look that makes him wince in pain.)

Once the kids are in bed, Arthur sits on the couch and Cobb fusses around the kitchen. 

“So what do you want?” he says, “We’ve got scotch, whiskey, er, Bacardi, don’t know what that’s doing there, that’s probably Ari’s, wine, vodka…”

“Just a scotch,” says Arthur.

His phone buzzes.

Ari, 12.42pm 

picture message

_shots shots shots shots!_

The text is accompanied by a photo of Eames, Yusuf and Ari inexplicably wearing feather boas and doing shots.

Arthur, 12.42pm

_Don't get too drunk, I do want Eames to be able to stand tomorrow._

Ari, 12.43pm

_he can't even stand rn i wldnt get ur hopes up_

“Here you are,” says Cobb, sitting down next to Arthur and handing him his drink.

Arthur downs it in one.

“Where’s the vodka?”

“In the side cabinet…”

“Great,” says Arthur, leaping towards it, “I’m going to need it.”

“Arthur, you know what happens when you drink that.”

“Why do you think I'm drinking it?” says Arthur, opening the bottle with his teeth.

“Oh dear.” 

The more texts Arthur receives, the more he drinks. He drinks a lot. 

Yusuf, 1.03am

_TALE AS OLLD AS TIEM_

Arthur, 1.04am

 _what_  

Yusuf, 1.04am 

_SONOG AS OLD AS RYHEM_

Arthur, 1.04am

 _yusuf_  

Yusuf, 1.05am 

_BEUATY AND THE BAEST_

Arthur, 1.05am

_yusuf what are you even_

Yusuf, 1.06am

_U N EMAES R BAETY AND THE BBEAST_

Arthur, 1.06am

 _what_  

Yusuf, 1.07am

_DO NTOT CONTRADITC ME_

Arthur, 1.07am 

_Are you alright?_

Yusuf, 1.08am

_waht r u tlkin bout_

Yusuf, 1.08am

_im fne_

Yusuf, 1.08am

_competlye fnie_

Yusuf, 1.08am

_complasdfyikmnvfrtiol_

Arthur, 1.09am

_Ari, I think you broke Yusuf._

Ari, 1.09am 

_yh hes passed out on the flor rn lol_

Arthur, 1.10am

_You should really get him up. He might need medical assistance. He could have alcohol poisoning._

Ari, 1.10am

_cba_

Arthur, 1.11am

_That’s very irresponsible of you._

Ari, 1.11am 

_YOLO_

Eames, 1.12am

_RTHUR UR TE BEAATY 2 MY BEATS_

Arthur, 1.12am

_So Yusuf informed me. By the way, would you mind scraping what’s left of him off the floor?_

Eames, 1.13am

_i cant teh florrs movin 2 much_

Arthur, 1.13am

_If you are in a state tomorrow I will never forgive you. Do you understand me?_

Eames, 1.14am

_be my geust be my guest_

Eames, 1.14am

_la la la candelsitck be my guest_

Arthur, 1.15am

_why am I marrying you_

Eames, 1.16am

_bcoz u luv me b4 teh roes petal falls_

Eames, 1.16am

_dont u rathur_

Eames, 1.16am 

_ARTUHR_

Eames, 1.16am

_RTHR DO U LUV ME BFOR THEE ROES PTAL FALS_

Arthur, 1.17am

_In spite of everything, I do love you._

Eames, 1.17am

_ahgh ive fallen arthr saveme_

Ari, 1.18am 

 _TALE AS OLD ASS TIEME_  

Arthur, 1.18am

_What on earth is going on with Beauty and the Beast here?_

Yusuf, 1.19am

_y is ther man on me_

Arthur, 1.19am

_Eames get off Yusuf_

Eames, 1.20am 

 _NOO he is squishyy he shal be mine_  

Arthur, 1.20am

_Eames._

Eames, 1.20am

_MINE_

By this point, Arthur is weeping into Cobb’s lap, and Cobb is stroking his hair and wishing that he’d hidden that vodka.

“And he just makes me feel so – I just – I love him so much, Dom. And I couldn’t let him go and I couldn’t leave him _ever_. And he has lovely hands and lovely eyes and oh keep doing that, that feels nice. And I want us to be together always and oh you smell nice, and I want us to have a family and – and I love him so much and I don’t know if he knows how much I love him but it’s a lot, Dom, it’s – I just love him.”

“Mmm,” says Cobb, who is starting to regret his existence.

 

* * *

 

To cut a very long story short, the next morning, Arthur wakes up on the couch with a hangover, Eames wakes up on the kitchen floor with a feather boa stuffed in his mouth, and, several miles away, Yusuf wakes up in a ditch completely naked with a brass candlestick lying next to him. Arthur somehow peels himself off the couch before peeling Eames off the floor and shoving a mug of coffee into his hands. 

“You’re so good to me,” Eames murmurs, grabbing Arthur’s face and stroking it, “So good, darling.”

“If you don’t sober up, I will kill you,” says Arthur.

“You are my beauty and I am –”

“Okay,” says Arthur, taking a deep breath,” Eames, I am going to go upstairs and take a shower. And when I've done that, I am going to come downstairs and you are going to be awake and fully functional. And if you are not, I am going to strangle you with those hideous boxers with Margaret Thatcher on them that you got for Secret Santa and for reasons unknown to me actually _kept_.”

“Tale as old as time…”

Arthur extricates himself from the man he is now seriously reconsidering marrying and heads upstairs. His phone rings, and he answers it with a sigh. 

“I think I had sex with a candlestick!”

Arthur freezes, midway up the stairs.

“ _What?_ ”

“I… I don’t know where I am,” says Yusuf, “Uh, there’s trees and a road and Arthur, you have to find me, please, please find me, I’m naked and there’s stinging nettles! Stinging nettles! My arse is on fire, Arthur!” 

Arthur tightens his grip on the banister.

“I will come to get you,” he says slowly, because he is about twenty seconds away from another meltdown, “As soon as I can. I’m going to have a shower and get dressed and then I will come and find you. Okay?”

“Arthur, please help me, there’s little ants and they're crawling up my legs!”

“Bye, Yusuf,” says Arthur, and hangs up.

He steels himself, and carries on upstairs. He needs to have a shower, and he’ll feel better, more refreshed, and he’ll be ready to start the day. It will be fine. Everything else will run perfectly, this was just a slight hiccup, he’ll be –

Arthur freezes, just inside the bathroom. Because there, in the bath, surrounded by shower products and various items of clothing, are Ari and Cobb. 

“I cleaned that _yesterday_!” Arthur screams, turns on the shower at a freezing temperature, and runs downstairs.

Eames has collapsed onto the kitchen floor, coffee pooled around him. He is attempting to lap it off the floor. Arthur’s phone rings again.

“Arthur, Arthur I’ve been arrested for indecent exposure,” says Yusuf, his voice panicky. 

Arthur throws his phone to the floor and screams.

Today is supposed to be the happiest day of his life.

(Yeah, like _that_ was ever going to happen.)


End file.
